No Perfect Hero(37)

I glance around the room. “What cat—oh. Mozart adopted you?”

Her brows wrinkle. “Is that his name?”

“Yeah. He’s kind of become the mascot around here. He’ll adopt a new family in our cabins, but mostly he hangs around me and Grandma.” I nudge her shoulder. “Don't worry about him. That boy knows his way around. He’ll be back when he’s ready. Get some rest, Hay. Tomorrow it’s another night of beer and frat boys.”

“Fuck. My. Life.” Groaning, she flops back into the pillow. “One of them slapped my ass, you know.”

Who? I’ll take his hand off at the wrist, I think immediately, but bite it back for her sake, clenching my teeth. “Good night, Hay,” I say pointedly.

Her only answer is a listless, noodly arm flopping toward me. I sigh, watching her for a few moments longer before turning to let myself out.

She’s a cute drunk, but God damn is she a handful.

I only hope, for her sake, that she doesn’t remember this in the morning.

She doesn’t strike me as a woman who likes being fragile.

Then again, a few hours ago, I didn’t strike myself as someone who gave a damn about her feelings when she’s been about five ticks away from clawing my eyes out ever since she showed up here.

Too bad I can’t ignore what she’s hiding underneath her sharp tongue and sharper wit.

Even if she’s taking her pain out on me for being a bit of a dick, I wasn’t the asshole who caused it, and apparently, it turns out I don’t mind being a punching bag for a pair of big green eyes as long as it makes her feel better.

I linger at the door, looking in through the glass at the glimpse of the bedroom, and her prone, quiet form – then make myself pull away.

Feels wrong inside. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking anymore.

I only know this is a distraction I can’t afford.

Not when every delay just has Jenna turning restlessly in her grave another day.

Not when every misstep pulls Dennis Bress further from my reach.





*



Goddammit, I love my Grandma, but I really didn’t come back to Heart’s Edge for this.

Socializing. Yeah, it's as shitty as it sounds.

I’d planned to spend my Sunday evening on the prowl. I still don’t know where Bress was going when he was heading out of town the other night before Stew stole the GPS tracker and screwed everything up. Or saved my ass, I’m not even sure which.

Still, just when I was getting myself together to head out – and avoiding Haley after that Friday night of strange confessions – Grandma came sailing into my side of the duplex and practically hauled me out in a full Nelson hold.

Sunday dinner, she said, was exactly what I needed. And I wouldn't dream of disappointing her and possibly agitate her aging ticker by turning her down, now would I?

Aging ticker, my ass. I swear that woman has a heart of steel.

And she uses it effectively to bludgeon me into doing her bidding with a smile on my face.

That’s how I find myself up at the main house in the area sectioned off for private living quarters, sitting in the kitchen where I grew up while Grandma ladles out her famous pot roast and gravy.

And while Flynn Bitters eyes me uneasily across the table.

I don’t know why he’s even here, other than Grandma's hospitality.

This is family space, the kitchen lined with framed photos of my grandparents, my parents, me, my sister. Flynn isn’t family, and he looks just as uncomfortable as I feel.

“You know,” Grandma says, “the two of you could try speaking. ‘Thank you, Wilma, for such a lovely dinner.’”

“Thanks, Wilma,” Flynn mumbles. “Good eats.”

“Thanks,” I add dryly. Her and those old-fashioned manners. “Not like I had much choice coming to din—”

All it takes is one razor-sharp look to shut my yap, keen as a dagger, before she smiles pleasantly. “Now, now, I don’t like the idea of anyone eating by their lonesome. Flynn’s been coming up to the house for dinner lately, and I know if I leave you out in that cabin, you’ll just microwave some dreadful packaged thing barely a step above your Army rations.” She arches her brows mildly as she takes her place at the head of the table. “Unless that nice Haley girl is cooking for you again?”

Oh, fuck. Here we go...

“Nah. Haley’s too busy slinging drinks at your pub to cook for anyone,” I point out, instinctively folding my napkin in my lap.

It’s old habit around her. I’m used to eating rough by myself, living raw. Hell, she's barely joking about the rations, I’ve gone months longer on just bacon and eggs than I ever did on deployment.

But around Grandma Wilma, the respectable boy she raised comes out. “I don’t even know how she manages for Tara,” I say, shaking my head.

“She has a little help,” Grandma answers, tapping her collar. “Tara’s such a delight! I’ve been teaching her a few little kitchen tricks myself. But you’d be surprised how resourceful your Haley is. She’s so lovely with her niece. I can only imagine what a delight she’ll be with her own children one day.”

Your Haley? She's not my anything.

And it shouldn't feel so strange knowing she isn't.